


The Timmy Collection

by thatoldbroad



Series: Charmie'ing [1]
Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Protective Armie, Rimming, Train Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-09-22
Packaged: 2019-06-22 12:42:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 12,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15582246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatoldbroad/pseuds/thatoldbroad
Summary: Timmy sheds. Armie hoards.1) Timmy forgets his scarf.2) Armie ambushes Timmy in the fitting room (again).3) Elizabeth wants to watch (but just the tip.)4) Timmy hasn't slept and is too thin. Naturally, Armie worries.5) Armie, the train molester.6) Armie panics quietly at the thought of someday.7) Armie's panic devastates Timmy.8) Elizabeth talks some sense into Armie.9) Timmy thinks awful things while he waits for Armie.10) Armie can't uncrack the egg, but there's hope.11) Timmy gets a bad review. Armie tells him a story.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> "He's an instinctual caretaker - " Timothee Chalamet on Armie Hammer.

A long striped scarf hangs from the bedpost in the smallest guest room in Armie and Elizabeth’s sprawling Los Angeles home. Furnished only with a full-sized bed and a tiny nightstand, in which Armie had discovered a sprinkle of pistachio shells after Timmy left, it is better suited for a prepubescent child than an adult nearly six feet tall. But it’s Timmy’s chosen room.

“It’s barely larger than a closet,” Armie had protested the first time Timmy visited and tried to steer him to a room three times larger. But Timmy had slipped away from under his arm, shrugged, and with a jaunty backward step headed determinedly in its direction.

“It reminds me of New York.” And Crema. Elio’s summer bedroom. It went unsaid, but beat like a pulse, a throb of memory, in the silence before Timmy’s face split into a wide grin and he laughed. 

“Later,” he had said, a perfect imitation of Oliver.

Traces of Timmy’s cologne and the creamy scent of shampoo cling to the scarf, despite that it was shed weeks earlier at the airport, when the shock of heat had hit Timmy and the smirk at seeing Armie in shorts and flip flops was replaced by disbelief. Because despite that it was in the middle of January, an improbable heat wave had gripped Los Angeles - and Armie's mind: climate change, melting ice caps, dying polar bears. His head spun at the thought of what they were leaving behind, the wasteland his children will inherit.

But the unexpected weather had its fringe benefits. Timmy in Armie’s outgrown shorts, in t-shirts that hung comically loose on his spare frame, barefooted in the backyard, and half naked at night so that Armie had easy access to his skin. Inches and inches of it, pale and smooth and trembling, and having lost none of its novelty, not to Armie’s exploring hands, his greedy mouth. And the unfurling of that dark, secret place at the flick of Armie’s tongue, the inevitable arch of Timmy’s back, and the flush that cascaded like a waterfall down, down Timmy’s neck and chest. His cry of surprise. The persistent disbelief that Armie would do that, _there_. (And once, in public, in the changing room of an upscale men’s boutique while Elizabeth shopped next door for baby clothes.)

And the scarf. It sways from the breeze through the open window, forgotten in Timmy’s rush to pack. He won’t miss it until he’s back in New York and he’s fumbling through his suitcase for something to warm his neck. He’ll be disappointed when he doesn’t find it. But only momentarily.

Armie lies down on Timmy's bed, suddenly exhausted. His heavy eyes close. Just for a minute, he tells himself.

Hours later, Armie startles awake to _Bartier Cardi_ \- Timmy's ringtone. A text: _Dude, you’re the best._ A selfie follows - a smiling Timmy and his trademark peace sign and Armie’s cashmere scarf wrapped snugly around his neck.

_You’re welcome._ Armie sends his own selfie: an exaggerated grin and two thumbs up.

There’s a beat and Armie imagines Timmy laughing. He’s easy like that. 

_How’d you know I’d forget?_

Because. Because Armie knows Timmy. Because Timmy is his. Because Timmy is - 

_Because you’re you._

He buries his nose in the scarf, inhales deeply, allows the ache in his heart to mellow, if only slightly. 

_And we’re us?_

_And we’re us._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I have on more than one occasion been called a bull in a china shop." - Armie Hammer

Armie is a self-confessed bull in a china shop. He tends to charge into conversations halfway through a controversial opinion before it dawns on him that he’s talking _out loud_ (and not using his inside voice as he has taken to coaching Harper, especially during meals in crowded “family-friendly” restaurants). He crashes into situations with a booming presence: I’m here, I’m here! As if being six-foot-five didn’t suffice to stop activity in any room. Which is not to say that he is unfailingly indelicate. Not always. He can manage stealth. He knows how to move silently, unseen, unnoticed, and mimic the still existence of an inanimate fixture until -

“Holy shit, fuck, what the hell - ” Timmy sputters upon catching sight of Armie’s reflection in the mirror. “Shit. Fucking fuck. Christ, Armie. What is wrong with you? You scared the shit out of me.” He spins to glare down at Armie, who is sitting primly on the bench in the dressing room and smiling with faked innocence. Amusingly, like a virginal maiden in a Harlequin novel, Timmy clutches the shirt he has just shrugged out of to his body. A flimsy attempt to cover _everything_ Armie has seen before. Many, many times. In HD.

“Language, young man.”

“You. Are. Creepy. What are you doing in here?”

“Just thought I’d say hi.” His eyes dip below Timmy’s face, which prompts Timmy to hike the shirt higher - just past the stiff points of his nipples, where Armie’s mouth had been only hours earlier. Armie thumbs at one through the cotton material. Timmy’s reaction is immediate: a gasp. A violent jolt. He slaps Armie’s hand away.

Armie laughs. “You’re such a prude.”

“Because I don’t want to be manhandled in public?”

“Don’t you?” Armie traces the shape of Timmy’s quiescent cock through the jeans he’s considering buying. Though at Timmy’s vicious kick, he relents, pulls his hand away, and raises both in surrender. “Fine. I’ll be nice.” Or at least sweeter. Because Timmy may not be a prude, but he is _shy_. Certainly less provocative than his fictional counterpart, Elio. And it had been a delight to discover it. Like treasure in a sunken ship.

Armie had spent hours on Timmy that first time, paying homage to every patch of skin exposed by his fingers or mouth. A kiss, a touch, and patience: all contributed to soothing away Timmy’s reluctance, his inhibitions. The inexperience he refused to betray at first, from too much shame and insecurity, were surrendered finally. Bared. And underneath Armie, Timmy had lain naked from the inside. After, Armie coaxed him into the tight circle of his arms, folded the sharp angles of him into the breadth of Armie’s body, and tucked him against Armie’s chest, where he shook and shook, (and they shook), overcome. But at Armie’s kiss to his temple and his whisper on repeat - _thank you thank you_ \- Timmy quieted finally.

“Will you turn around?”

“Why?”

“I just want to see how it looks on you.”

“You can see it in the mirror.” 

“Please?”

“God, you’re a pain.” But Timmy turns.

The cut of the jeans is skinny and clings, but only to the extent of hinting at the curve of Timmy’s tiny, precious ass. “Perfect,” Armie murmurs, though he’s not sure if he means the jeans or Timmy.

“I’m glad you approve. Now can you please go wait outside?”

“But I like it in here.” He flings his arms around Timmy’s bare waist and snuffles at the small of his back. “And here. You smell like raspberries.”

“It’s Elizabeth’s soap.” He pinks at the admission. “What? My sister uses the same brand and it, um, makes your skin soft.”

“It’s true,” Armie confirms, mumbles into Timmy’s back, and rubs his face against it for emphasis. He sneaks a hand down Timmy’s stomach and lays it lightly on his crotch. “Soft here, too. But I can fix that.”

Timmy laughs. “You are utterly incorrigible.” But he doesn’t pull away. Armie considers it a minor victory.

“I love it when you use five-syllable words. It really turns me on.”

“And so do fitting rooms apparently.”

“Only when you’re in it.” 

“And Elizabeth?”

“She inspires a different set of kinks. And speaking of - ” He unzips Timmy’s jeans, draws them just past the plumpest part of Timmy’s ass, then his briefs. He takes a moment to admire the span of his large hands gripped around Timmy’s narrow hips, a study of contrasts. The negative space in between, and there he licks. A tease.

“Armie,” Timmy protests, but there’s a hint of arousal in his voice. He makes a weak attempt to squirm free. “We’re gonna get caught.”

They could. It’s part of the thrill. And would it be so bad if they were outed? Finally, granted the freedom to just be. Then again, _Armie Hammer Caught Rimming Timothee Chalamet in SoHo Boutique_ is probably not in the Top Five of how Timmy would choose to see his career burn down, and so early on. Neither does Armie coddle a malicious wish to have that nightmare headline visited on him and his family, let alone Timmy, but neither does it dissuade him from his present compulsion.

Timmy jumps at the first flick of Armie’s tongue at his hole. “Boo,” Armie says, then proceeds to lick him maddeningly slow. He knows what that does to Timmy, the careful tracing of his pucker, the gradual awakening of every sensitive nerve. And soon, as certainly as the run rises in the East, Timmy is begging wordlessly. He cants back, urging. 

“You drive me mad,” Armie growls lowly, as if to caution Timmy of what he plans next, after he breaks for a breath - deep, deep inhale - and dives back in. His subsequent assault is more vicious. Kitten licks, a broad, flat stroke, and fluttering, quick as a hummingbird’s wings. Faintly, he becomes aware of Timmy sagging in his arms, his legs buckling. The sound of his erratic breathing is the only sign that he’s still attempting control. But when Armie’s tongue penetrates him, he loses even that.

The piercing cry startles them both.

“Shit,” Armie says, laughing, and he yanks Timmy onto his lap, clamps a hand over his mouth. “Gotcha good, huh?” He pulls out his cock and grinds it along the cleft of Timmy’s ass, then he jerks him furiously, ruthlessly, until spunk spurts from Timmy’s dick and coats hotly over Armie’s hand, until he’s writhing and wriggling and whimpering: enough, enough. Pity he can't see Timmy’s eyes roll back. Because, yeah: each time. He releases Timmy’s cock, his mouth, but he doesn’t let go. Not yet, not yet. With Armie’s cheek pressed firmly to Timmy’s back, they breathe in tandem.

“You’re such a pervert,” Timmy says after awhile. He’s still panting. And his voice is gravelly - deliciously fucked out.

“But I have baby wipes.”

“Oh. My. God. You cannot say baby-anything right now. You are fucking with my wires.”

Armie pecks him on the cheek. “Aw, you love it.”

Timmy twists around to stare at him. He does it for so long that Armie wonders whether any of his come splattered on his face. But then he kisses Armie: “I love _you_ ,” he corrects. “Also, you’re paying for these jeans.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "And special thanks to Armie's wife, Elizabeth Chambers, who is here tonight, as well, who is as crucial to this process as anyone. And who let me crawl all over your husband for two months. Thank you for that." - Timothee Chalamet, acceptance speech for the Rising Star Award at the Palm Springs International Film Festival
> 
> "You're more loved than you know." - Elizabeth Chambers to Timothee Chalamet on Timmy's birthday, Instagram 
> 
> "She ships it." - comment left on Elizabeth Chambers' Oscars 2018 photo, Instagram

Elizabeth makes the proposal over a bowl of steaming pasta at Timmy’s favorite Italian restaurant in Arthur Avenue. Abruptly, she deviates from her Baking 101 - _precision is the key and you have to watch the oven, because a minute too long can burn the thing_ \- and says: “I know how you can thank me.”

Confounded by the _non sequitur_ , Timmy momentarily forgets the gnocchi poised at his lips. “Excuse me?”

“For letting you ‘crawl all over’ my husband.” She laughs when Timmy blushes instantly. “And, no, I’m not referring to your free Gucci swag. Nice sweater, by the way.”

Timmy tugs at the collar of the camel-colored garment, a lamb outlined on its front, as self-conscious as he had been when a fan had asked about it during his live Facebook chat with Luca. He has no qualms about sporting designer gear, but hates the obvious reminder. Like: he’s fine being seen in it, he just doesn’t want to talk about it. How he got it, or where, or who gave it to him. Or, god forbid, if he actually bought it. He doesn’t want to be _that guy_. Spoiled, entitled, high on his own Kool-Aid. Like: Johnny Depp. And the Gucci sweaters, the Berluti suits, the Louis Vuitton luggage - gateway to Douche Kingdom and he isn’t interested in visiting, not even for a day. He can’t get used it. He doesn’t want to. Because the moment he does, he’s convinced it’ll be the beginning of the end. And by the same philosophy, he continues to be in awe that Armie and Elizabeth aren’t sick of him yet. The luck of the universe, he keeps telling himself. So for Elizabeth - anything.

“What’s mine is yours, sister wife.” 

She gasps, as if Timmy had said something shocking, but her eyes are shining. “You haven’t used that nickname around Armie, have you? He would be _appalled_.” And yet they do split a 70-30 share in the Armie commodity. A more than fair distribution, even if the children didn’t factor into the equation. Timmy _is_ the tag-along, the fifth, tiny wagon hitched to the hive. The icing on the cake, or as Elizabeth liked to describe him: the whipped cream on top of a hot piece of apple pie _and_ the side of (sometimes vanilla, sometimes a-more-complicated-flavor) ice cream. The extra, and yet not a threat. 

“He shouldn’t be. Our union is holy. We’re consecrated in the stars, or the planets - or something like that.”

“Don’t you ever slip,” Elizabeth warns and wags a finger at him. 

“Promise. But you were saying?”

“Right. I was saying - I want to watch. You and Armie fucking, that is.”

Of course, the punchline is delivered at the precise moment Timmy remembers his gnocchi and has just swallowed it down. It gets caught somewhere past the vicinity of his tonsils and it takes an entire glass of water to dislodge it. Several coughs later, he says, “That’s not what you actually said. And, what? Since when.”

“Since now. Since awhile, or at least - I’ve been thinking about it.”

“But I thought - ”

Elizabeth shakes her head. “I didn’t say participate. I haven’t changed my mind about that.” _Because you’re gorgeous, but I don’t want to fuck you. Because it’s just Armie for me and maybe, hopefully, for always._ “If you’re okay with it.”

“Is Armie?”

She nods. “He is, if you are. His words.”

“I, uh, yeah.” Because for Elizabeth, for Armie - anything. 

“I do have one request.”

_

 

Just the tip.

And Elizabeth hadn’t been exaggerating. She’s like a hawk - sharp-eyed and incisive. More than once she’s had to verbally whip them back in line to just shy of the two inches that makes up the head of Armie’s massive cock, when Armie slips too far inside.

“Ah, ah.” Timmy’s eyelids flutter. Sweet, sweet torture.

The idea was prompted by an article that Elizabeth had read online: “The trick is slow and steady pressure in passing the second sphincter. All those nerve endings in there can cause pleasure, if you do it right. Having your partner sliding in and out, stimulating those nerves, can feel marvelous. It’s just a rich, sensual experience. Anal sex doesn’t automatically equate prostate massage. Some guys don’t even necessarily like a lot of it when they bottom. A little here and there is fine, but if it’s going to be a long session, I’d just as soon find a position where my prostate isn’t taking the full brunt of things. It’s that steady, in and out, tissue muscle massage that I like.”

“Is it like that for you?” she had asked.

But Timmy was dumbfounded. His prostate _always_ took the brunt of a fuck. And he loves it. He’s a slut for prostate massage, prostate play, prostate milking - hell, just the mention of the word inspired a Pavlovian reaction: spread and bend, or roll over, or _grab ‘em ankles, Timmy_.

So to say that he was not exactly enthusiastic at Elizabeth’s proposition, at first, would be . . . precise. Just the tip? He couldn’t fathom it. That it could result in more than just Timmy _frustrated out of his mind_ and contemplating that he might actually, spontaneously combust if Armie did not full on fuck his brains out. It was beyond the realm of his imagination, which is thankfully limited by: 1) being a twenty-two year old; and 2) being a twenty-two year old with very little experience in sex of _any_ variety, but especially anal sex, and definitely anal sex of the gay variety.

Because? Holy, shit. Wow. Timmy’s lost track of time, but forever would be too soon for this to end.

It’s the sweet drag of Armie’s cock. The constant slide of it against his rim makes Timmy feel like he’s being fucked for the first time, again and again and again, but without the pain. Just concentrated pleasure. And they’re barely even moving, barely even joined, just where Armie’s hips stutter and where he has a hand in Timmy’s hair, in turns carding through it or rubbing his ear or sliding down his neck and his chest to fondle a nipple. And despite that the air conditioner is on full blast, he’s slick with perspiration. He’s glistening with it. Wet everywhere, especially his ass, where the squelching noise of their fucking is utterly obscene.

Their limited mobility makes Armie creative. He alternates swiveling his hips, plunging in and out (just the tip), and targeting a spot, angling his cock just so. At an especially emphatic thrust, Timmy curls inward like a cat. He’s glad one of them (Armie) had the presence of mind to position him on his side, with Armie behind him. He doesn’t know if he could’ve handled it on all fours, not for this long, or Armie if he’d lain on his stomach or back. And it’s still easy enough to bury his face in a pillow, and his scream, when Armie jabs-jabs-jabs into him.

In his peripheral vision, he sees Elizabeth rise from the chair where she’s been sitting close enough to monitor, but far enough away to avoid the HD experience: “I want to see penetration. See him disappear inside of you. I think that would turn me on. But not - the veins on his dick or the wrinkles of your asshole. No offense.”

But, now, she kneels at the edge of the bed, face inches from Timmy’s dick. “Can I?” she asks.

“Wh-what?” He blinks. Tries to focus. He’s not sure what she’s saying, or exactly what’s happening. Why is she so close suddenly? And his throat is so parched, suddenly. His skin feels tight, like a hundred fiery-red ants are biting him at once. But it’s good. _So good._ “I - I thought. You said - _oh_.” He arches. 

“I changed my mind.” Her fingers dance over the head of his cock. “Nod for me, sweetheart. Show me this is okay - that’s it. Good, good. You’re _so_ good.” She leans in, opens her mouth, and sucks - just the tip.

A flash of white explodes behind Timmy’s shut eyelids just before his eyes roll back and he sinks blissfully, blessedly, into oblivion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The article Elizabeth read was cribbed from a response at Quora.com to the question: What do male gay bottoms get from receptive anal sex? What are the sensations?
> 
> Thank you for that, internet. And thank you, all, for reading.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A series of tweets:
> 
> "finding my way , something is guiding me" - Timothee Chalamet
> 
> "The drought is over!! Thank god! Timmy Tim your tweets give me life!!" - Armie Hammer
> 
> "aaaarrrmmmiiieeee" - Timothee Chalamet
> 
>  
> 
> And a quote:
> 
> "Timmy is . . . he is an incredible human being with such a rich and vibrant internal life that he wears so close to the surface. He is so unguarded, and it's almost like a gift to the world around him. Because he could very easily protect himself more, but he doesn't, and that's what makes him wonderful." - Armie Hammer

At last, the drought is over. After months and months of back-to-back filming and press duty for _Beautiful Boy_ , Timmy is back. Finally. Armie sees him a short distance away exiting the security point. _There’s that beautiful smile._ Perennially bright as the sun and as powerful in its gravitational pull, and as Timmy nears Armie feels himself react to it. Excitement curls in his belly.

“Come here, you.”

They hug. Armie wants to cling, like Elio to Oliver at the train station before Oliver leaves. But people are watching and they have cameras, and Timmy isn’t going anywhere, not for awhile.

“That’s all you brought?” Armie gestures to the backpack slung over one narrow shoulder. 

“It’s all I need.”

“How was the flight?”

“Jittery.”

“That the reason for the bags under your eyes?”

“That you’re way of telling me I look like shit?”

“You said it, not me.”

“Sorry to disappoint.” But he’s still smiling, and there’s the usual swagger in his walk. He knows he has Armie whipped.

“Got a present for you.” He tosses Timmy a bag of pistachios. “But don’t leave the shells in my car.”

“And here I thought you kept them as souvenirs.”

When they reach the parking lot, Armie throws an arm around his shoulders. A friendly gesture that won’t attract attention. “I missed you,” he says quietly.

“Me, too.”

_

 

After an entirely too short make out session, Armie leaves Timmy in the small guest room. Not that he had any other choice. The poor thing conked out on him in the middle of a kiss, with Armie’s hand halfway down his pants. Pity. He was hoping he’d get a blow job in before dinner.

“Where’s Timmy?” Elizabeth asks when Armie saunters into the kitchen. She’s putting the finishing touches on a multi-tier naked cake. He tries to sneak away a finger of icing from the bowl and gets a hearty smack for his effort. “Uh-uh. This is his.”

“He’s knocked out. And that beanpole can’t eat this whole thing.”

“He gets first slice.”

Armie sighs, as if thoroughly put upon. “Fine.”

“How is he?”

“Okay. I think?”

“You think?”

“He was quiet on the way here.”

“He’s tired.”

“Which is even weirder because he’s a chatterbox when he’s running on fumes.”

“True.”

“And he’s _so_ thin.”

Elizabeth nods. “Gaunt. But you remember how he was when you were shooting CMBYN. And during the press junkets, all through awards season.”

“Yeah. He forgets to eat.” And had Armie, or Elizabeth, or Luca, or Nicole not been around to insist that he _sit down for a minute and finish your damn meal, Timmy_ , he might have deteriorated to a - a sliver of a Stroke. Armie recalls the GQ description, how exactingly accurate it was. A Stroke of art. But Armie has no desire to see him disappear. “He did eat an entire bag of pistachios on the way here.”

“That’s something. And we’ll fatten him up while he’s here. He’ll be good and tubby when he goes back to New York.”

“Insulate him with a layer of fat. Good idea. He won’t even need a coat for winter.”

“Exactly.” She leans over the counter and pecks him on the cheek. “So you can stop worrying.”

_

 

Timmy sleeps through the afternoon, through dinner and desert (the cake goes untouched for another day), past Armie reading the children a bedtime story (Goodnight, Moon), and well after Elizabeth has had a bath (an occasional treat) and turned in for the night. Near midnight, Armie hears him approach the media room where he’s reclined on a chair reading on his phone. He can tell that Timmy is trying to keep quiet, and he succeeds somewhat. His footsteps are light; it’s the rustling off his overlarge t-shirt that gives him away.

Timmy peeks into the room, head cocked. “Hi.”

Armie waves him in. “Sleeping beauty is finally awake.” When Timmy is within reach, Armie hauls him onto his lap. Extra long limbs are arranged and rearranged, and one of Timmy’s slender, pale legs is needled through Armie’s thicker, darker pair. They settle finally with Timmy’s head on his chest and Armie’s arms slung around him, happily intertwined.

“Feel better?” Armie asks. Timmy nods. He looks better. Color has returned to his cheeks and his eyes look less like the center of pitted fruit. “So, what’s up?”

“The sky.”

Armie laughs. “I haven’t heard that in a million years. Which is about how old that joke is.”

“I found it on the internet.”

“You were googling stale-ass jokes on the internet?”

“Yep. During the flight. I wanted to come prepared. Unseat the king of one-liners.”

“That is _not_ me.”

“You’re right. I don’t know why I said that.”

Armie tilts Timmy’s chin up so he can see his face. He regards him for a moment. “Really, how are you?”

“Really, I’m good.” He punctuates it with an exaggerated grin.

“You’ve lost weight.”

“A little.”

“A lot. I’m scared I might break you if I squeeze too hard.”

Timmy slides a knee up and rubs it against Armie’s crotch. “You won’t break me.”

“Tease.” They kiss for awhile. When they break for air, Armie says, “But, seriously, you do know the waif-trend is on its way out. Curves are making a big comeback.”

“Which is your way of saying you want me to get butt implants? Is that it? A little Kimmy K in your Timmy Chalamet?” He completes the rhyme with a beatbox. Armie joins in by waving his hands in the air.

“Statistics, statistics!”

Timmy elbows him. “Stop that.”

Armie laughs and kisses him again. “Fuck Kimmy K.” He cups Timmy’s tiny, precious ass. “I like the fit of your cheeks just fine.”

“Perv.” But he spread his legs, and Armie’s hand descends. He trails a finger along the cleft of his ass. “I like that,” Timmy whispers. “Oh, that too. And that. _Fuck._ ”

And they do, until dawn, and as the darkness fades so do Armie’s worries.

_

 

The next day, Timmy has second helpings at every meal. He is chatty and exuberant. In the kitchen where he helps Elizabeth prep before meals, and in the studio where he plays Armie’s scene partner for an upcoming project, in between scenes, he amuses them with stories.

“This guy, a reporter for an online magazine, I think - he kept saying _Boy Erased_. And I had to keep saying: that’s Lucas Hedges, man, you mean _Beautiful Boy_. And Steve, who was sitting next to me, just kept laughing.”

Also:

“You know those rumors about how some actors have it in their contract that no one - meaning 'the little people’ - should talk to them? Unless they're spoken to first? I never really believed them. Rubbish, I thought. I see you looking at me, Armie. Yes, London did rub off. But _it’s true_. This guy - and I’m not gonna name names - but, wow. He totally lost it when a PA asked him if he wanted a bottle of water. Screaming about paragraph sixteen, subdivision b, blah blah blah. Such a douche.”

There was also the little old lady who sat next to him on his flight to Los Angeles:

“She kept trying to stuff a twenty in my pocket every time I had to go by her to use the bathroom.”

“Why?” Armie had asked, utterly perplexed.

“No idea. Maybe she thought I was her grandson.”

“Or a rentboy.” Armie ducked just in time to avoid being hit with the shoe that Timmy had aimed at his head.

He is, by all appearances and manner, back to his usual self. The Timmy that Armie knows. 

So, Armie relaxes. When he catches the slight tremor in Timmy’s hand the next night after dinner, when Timmy reaches for a roll, Armie pushes it to the back of his mind. _It’s nothing. He’s fine._ And a few mornings later when Timmy continues to decline a trip to the beach, a happy hour drink at Armie’s favorite bar in the afternoons, Armie ignores the niggle of concern and plays it down to Timmy still being jet lagged. The return of Timmy’s swollen eyes and their bruised coloring - he ignores those, too. Until he can’t. Until he spies the light on in the studio past three in the morning, almost a week later, on his way to the kitchen for a bottle of milk. And he finds Timmy there, wide awake, pacing frenetically.

Armie sees him then - really sees him. And he looks awful. Ashen and wilted. But Armie doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t intervene. He doesn’t know how. He sees, but he doesn’t understand. He’s afraid to.

The next morning, Timmy crashes. Armie tries to wake him for breakfast, but he is immoveable, dead weight. In the loose grip of his hand is a prescription bottle.

_

 

“I think he’s using,” Armie says.

Elizabeth twirls the bottle of pills in her hand. It’s midday, long past the hours when the children wake, but she’s still in bed, in her pajamas, an open book on her lap. The children are with her parents. They had planned to spend the day with Timmy. Just the three of them. So much for that. “It’s just Ambien. He’s probably going through a rough patch. Remember how I was after Harper?”

“Why wouldn’t he tell us?”

“Because _this_ , you worrywart. The fact that you’re already thinking he’s a meth addict. Don’t - don’t deny it. I know you too well.”

“But he’s so skinny. And have you seen his hands? He’s had the shakes.”

“Might be side effects of the Ambien. Just talk to him.”

“I’d rather search his backpack.”

“No.”

“Why not? He’s out like a light. Practically comatose. He won’t know.”

“Not the point. What have you been teaching Harper when she wants something? Instead of stomping her feet or biting me on the leg.”

“To use her words,” Armie says sulkily.

“Gold star for Daddy.” Elizabeth places the Ambien back in his hand. “Now you just have to wait.”

_

 

Armie does, until six that evening, when he decides Timmy’s slept long enough and after having spent the day poking his head into his room every half hour. He stakes out at the foot of Timmy’s bed, too short to accommodate him, so his legs dangle over the edge and he’s forced to gather Timmy’s feet on his lap. Unfortunately, the vigil stretches for another hour. But through the pins and needles and alternating numbness in his legs, he takes solace in being so close to Timmy. He runs his hands up and down Timmy's calves. In sleep, his face is smooth and free of distress, porcelain perfect, and the picture of angelic beauty. It _hurts_ to look at him.

Timmy’s eyes flutter open. _Finally._ When he sees Armie, he gives him a sleepy, sweet smile, and Armie momentarily forgets his worries.

“You’re a pleasant sight to wake up to.”

“I hope you still think so in a minute.”

“What’s happening in a minute?”

“A talk.” It’s the tone in Armie’s voice. It makes Timmy bolt upright.

“Did something happen?”

“No. And yes.” He pulls out the bottle of Ambien from his pocket and shakes it for Timmy to see. “I found this. You fell asleep with it in your hand.”

Timmy takes the bottle from Armie, looks down at it, then back up at Armie in confusion. “Okay.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“Because it’s not a big deal. And I knew you’d worry. And you are, aren’t you?”

Armie tugs Timmy to him until the rest of him is on Armie's lap. The position brings them eye to eye. "I need you to tell me the truth. I promise not to lose my shit, or be judgy." He’s not being entirely truthful, but. "Is it just the Ambien?"

Timmy's mouth falls open. "What are you asking me?"

And Armie can't help it. His eyes stray to the backpack. Timmy is a quick study. He gets it immediately. But Armie is completely unprepared for how Timmy's face falls. "You think I'm some kind of junkie?" he asks. "I just spent the last three months talking about how hard it was to play an addict. You think I'm that stupid?" He shakes his head. Pushes off Armie. He is shaking. "Here." He stalks to the backpack, picks it up, and dumps it on the bed. When Armie reaches for it, Timmy stops him with a hand - "no, I'll do it." 

A mountain of clothing, wrapped and unwrapped candy, a book, a rolled up script, three pens and a highlighter piles under the upturned bag. But no drugs. Not even after Timmy sifts through the pile, turns pockets inside out, including from clothing that he'd already unpacked. He also empties his wallet and a small bag of toiletries. No drugs there, either.

"Satisfied?" He doesn't return to the bed, but backs into a corner, arms held tightly around his body. Armie feels like an utter shit.

"Fuck. Timmy, I'm sorry. It's just - "

"You know me better than that. Or I thought you did."

"I do, I mean - I've just seen it happen. Too many times. To people I know, or thought I knew."

"So it isn't personal?" Timmy says bitterly. "Got it."

"That's not what I meant." Army gets up. He approaches Timmy slowly like he's a wounded animal, which Armie supposes he is. Gently, he takes Timmy's hands in his. Kisses his knuckles. "I love you, and I'm sorry. But I love you, so I can't promise I'll never do this again. I'm going to think shitty things because I don't know how to not worry, and ask shitty questions because I can't not ask them. Not when I love you as much as I do." He squeezes Timmy’s hands. "Do you understand?"

Timmy looks up at him with misty eyes. "Yes," he whispers.

"Good, because you _are_ personal, so fucking much.”

The rigidity leaves Timmy's body and he falls against Armie with a quiet sob.

_

 

The flip side of success isn't failure; it's invasion. And the worst misconception about Timmy is that nothing penetrates. Not the obsession, or the stalking, or the scrutiny. Not the cruelty. And people are _mean_. Which is manageable when it's a few or an infrequent occurrence. But when it's a hive or every day -

"I haven't been on the internet at all. Twitter or Instagram," Timmy says quietly. "I stopped leaving my hotel room - I couldn't."

Because it's not just what people have been saying, the nasty things they fling at him - ugly, no talent, exceedingly overrated, a fluke: words that can wound any actor that risks exposing himself. They are also demanding. To them, he's no different from a city street or a public park, there for their use and entertainment. Their cruelty is blind, masked by adoration and worship: a fan doesn't know she's being mean when she camps out at his hotel room and ambushes Timmy for a photograph, a hug, a hi, anything, anything, especially after a grueling 12-hour shoot.

“They had to move me five times, five different hotels,” he says, hunching further into himself, his eyes distant, as if he’s reliving a nightmare. He’s propped against the headboard, limbs folded and contained, while Armie sits at the foot of the bed where he had been earlier. He aches to hold Timmy, but Timmy seems to need the distance, the space to unravel. “At the last hotel, they paid this guy to patrol my floor every half hour. They didn’t know where else to put me where I wouldn’t be found.” He pauses. “I’m starting to hate it. Stupid, huh?”

“Not at all.”

“You warned me. Everyone did. And it’s not like I haven’t seen people I know go through it. But I never thought - when it’s you, it’s something else.”

“The difference between witnessing an accident and being in one.”

Timmy laughs softly. “That is an awful analogy.”

“But true.”

“But true.”

“Why haven’t you said anything?”

“I couldn’t. It felt _wrong_. I didn’t want to sound - to be - ungrateful.”

“You are the least ungrateful person I know.” Armie shuffles closer to him. “Do you mind?” Timmy shakes his head and gives Armie his blessing to touch, finally. He allows Armie to nudge behind him and bracket his smaller frame. Armie runs his hands up and down Timmy’s arms. “I was wrong about you.”

“It’s okay. I get it.” 

“No. Not that. But definitely that, too, and god I’m so sorry, again. But what I meant was - I told a magazine that you could easily protect yourself, but that you don’t. That you choose not to. I was wrong.” Because Timmy is just himself. It’s not a conscious decision. He doesn’t strategize his reactions, he just _reacts_. He says what he thinks, laughs when something’s funny, dances when there’s music or when he just feels like it. He is profusely thankful, almost to a fault. Honest, almost to a fault. _Pure_ , because he is transparent, not because he is innocent. The Timmy the world sees is not an avatar, not a fabrication of celebrity. He is the Timmy in Armie’s arms right now. The Timmy who leaves a trail of pistachio shells behind him as if he might need them later to find his way back home. The Timmy that races Harper while he sits fixed in place on a toddler’s rocking horse, while she pedals circles around him on her trike. The Timmy that fidgets excitedly at dinner whenever a new, famous guest joins them and mouths “OH MY GOD” at Armie when the guest turns his or her back. 

That Timmy is a gift to the world. But that Timmy can’t survive, and he’s already changing.

“Promise me that you’ll call or text the next time some asshole says something or does something . . . assholish. Or you’re ambushed again at a coffee shop. Or you’ve got paparazzi following you to your apartment. Or you can’t sleep - please tell me you’ll call when you can’t sleep.”

“So you can talk me out of taking an Ambien?” Timmy jokes.

“It does have awful side effects, you know. But, no. I just - I just want to be there. So you know you’re not alone.”

“I will.” He lifts Armie’s hand to his chest, clutches it like a lifeline. “Promise.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Precedes chapter 4.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I do ride the subway. I got a MetroCard in my pocket . . . I love the subway that much." - Armie Hammer

That incorrigible man and his bad, bad ideas. It’s his fault Timmy is in his current predicament: stuffed like a sardine on the 1 train - the train most notorious for its flagging AC - smack dab in the middle of rush hour during a heat wave. He had showered barely an hour ago, but he’s already dripping sweat. Hair clings to the back of his neck and his shirt is drenched at his armpits. He hopes his deodorant is still holding up. Otherwise, the poor girl squeezed under the arm he has gripping the pole above them is no doubt getting whiffs of _eau de timmy_. So embarrassing.

_Wouldn’t it be fun if, say, we rendezvoused on the train?_

At a stop undisclosed to Timmy, Armie would sidle up behind him like a random stranger and, in the midst of the crush of bodies surrounding them, proceed to molest him.

The proposition had landed in Timmy’s inbox approximately twelve hours earlier. Timmy was in bed surfing the internet, wide awake from excitement and a mild case of blue balls. He would be seeing Armie the next day and fantasies spun in his mind of all the dirty things Armie had in store. Timmy would pretend to be shocked at his suggestions or (preferably) “forced” imposition. He would fake reluctance. Armie _loved_ that. It always got him so riled up and inevitably, without fail, landed Timmy on his back with his knees to his chest, or abruptly rolled onto his stomach and hitched up to all fours, or bent over a desk or a chair or (Timmy’s favorite) the bathroom sink, staring at their reflection. Armie hates to watch himself perform, but he has no such aversion when it comes to their fucking.

So, Timmy was already hard when Armie’s email pinged on his phone, and the email just made him harder, _painfully_. Because Timmy hasn’t busted a nut in over two weeks. Because two weeks ago, when Timmy had told Armie he’d be in New York for a few days due to an unexpected break from filming The King, Armie had begged: _save it for me, baby, please._ Don’t play with your dick. And Timmy had agreed. How could he not? When Armie sounded like _that_?

And, consequently - due to his brain having been clouded stupid with unrequited lust and his frustrated body backed up with unspent semen - at 7:15 that morning, instead of hitting snooze at the sound of his blaring alarm, Timmy had dragged himself out of bed. 

Dressed in a t-shirt and shorts with an elastic waistband, and after gulping down a cup of coffee, he rushed past his mom's questioning look with a _gotta go, got an interview_. Outside the residential building that had been his childhood home, he put on sunglasses and a baseball cap, pulled low. He hunched. Slid his hands into his pockets and didn't make eye contact on his quick walk to the station. At 59th Street, he boarded the last car on a local that was headed uptown.

That was many, many stops ago. The train is returning back downtown from the northwest tip of the Bronx, and angry commuters have been left on platforms unable to push their way through for a coveted spot despite near violent attempts. The plan had been good on paper, or at least in Armie’s deranged mind, but it fails at execution. Or it will. Because there is no way on earth Armie will be able to fit his six-foot-five body of hard muscle in this train. Not without starting a fist fight. They'll just have to meet at Armie's hotel. Simulate the experience in a closet, if Armie gets grouchy about it.

Timmy pulls out his phone. He's so focused on typing a text to Armie and staying steady on his feet, a precarious stance at the train's bursts of speed, that he doesn't notice the towering man who shuffles behind him. Not until a large, hot hand slides up under the loose leg of his shorts and a finger grazes his asshole.

Timmy jumps out of his skin. ”Shit," he yelps. Thankfully, it slips unnoticed beneath the loud squeal of the train breaking for a stop. Timmy's heart thuds suddenly in his chest. They're really going to do this. He feels his temperature rise, and not from the humidity.

The sign on the platform wall says 125th Street - Harlem. Bodies around Timmy jostle. And it's magic, it has to be, because without removing his dawdling finger at the crack of Timmy’s ass, Armie manages to maneuver them into a niche at the end of the car right next to a conductor’s cab. The aisle here is narrower, banked by two seats on one side and three on the other, mimicking a lounge or an alcove. It's walled in by the train's door that leads to the other cars, meant for emergencies but used more often by New Yorkers to get to a cooler car or by panhandlers to access a more receptive crowd. Armie presses Timmy flush up against it. It's weird. No one in New York stands in a train facing out a connecting door's widow, and especially not when the train is traveling in the opposite direction - away from and instead of toward the next destination. But weird is normal in New York, so Timmy pretends to be _that guy_ , weirder than the rest.

Armie's finger slides easily into Timmy's already lubed ass. But it's an abrupt penetration. He doesn't tease like he normally does and it hurts. Timmy flinches and instinctively fights against the intrusion. "Relax," Armie whispers. There is movement behind them. Around them. The ebb and flow of the crowd. But Timmy is barely aware of it, his full attention snared by Armie’s searching finger, the furtive lick he makes at the shell of Timmy’s ear. He tries to do what Armie said and flexes the muscles at his rim. That gets him a quiet groan so he bears down a little. When the train gears up again and propels forward, it sends him crashing back against Armie - and his prostate slamming against Armie’s finger. 

Timmy twists up on his toes. Sweat trickles down the side of his face. “Fuck,” he hisses. Now that Armie has chanced upon his target, he cuts to the chase. The train will empty significantly at 42nd Street. And if Armie doesn’t succeed in making Timmy climax before then, they’ll be like goldfish in a bowl. _Mating_ goldfish. Likely arrested for indecency. And Timmy must be really fucked in the head, because _that_ makes him squirt a pearl of precum in his briefs. Or maybe it’s the thought of being handcuffed. Or the fact that Armie’s finger is relentless stroking _there_. Or handcuffs plus prostate play? Yes, please.

Armie spins him around, so swiftly and suddenly that Timmy is left dizzy from it. He wonders if they’ll kiss - but no, the train is still crowded. Armie’s eyes are trained elsewhere above him, nonchalant. But his chest is heaving. His nostrils are flared. And his cock is hard and jutting against Timmy’s stomach. At once, he penetrates Timmy with three fingers, and it’s only then that Timmy realizes he had been empty, momentarily. The act makes Timmy surge upward and his dick collides against Armie’s. They gasp.

The lights in the train go out. Shocked noises go through the crowd. Blackouts while the train continues to run is not an unusual occurrence and lasts seconds normally. And this instance, too, may have been seconds long. But Timmy won’t recall, not later, and he has no sense of it while it happens. Because Armie uses the opportunity to grind against him as his fingers simultaneously grind against his prostate. He flicks at a nipple through Timmy’s shirt, then _pinches_. And Timmy comes. Blindingly hard. His teeth rattle from it. The lights return, but for a moment Timmy mistakes them for fireworks.

Armie is a wreck. He still isn’t looking at Timmy, but his face is beet red and glistening. There’s a wet spot on the front of his shorts. And now that Timmy’s thinking brain is back online and his senses are reorienting, he recognizes the unmistakable funk of semen. It’s heavy in the air around them. His face heats up, probably goes as bright red and guilty as Armie’s. But a laugh is bubbling up in his chest. That was insane - they're insane. Armie looks down at him then, a smile fighting to appear on his lips. 

As expected, there’s a mass exit at 42nd Street and Armie and Timmy steal the two seats nearest to them. Quickly, Amie pulls out two t-shirts from a backpack that Timmy just notices. He hands one to Timmy.

At South Ferry, the last stop in Manhattan, they disembark. And no one pays attention to the two weirdos in baseball caps and sunglasses, who are walking slightly funny and in a rush to the Stated Island Ferry Terminal, headed for the men’s bathroom and holding t-shirts to their crotches. After all, weird (and kinky) is normal in New York.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I needed to be far away--from him, from this room, from what we'd done together. It was as though I were slowly landing from an awful nightmare but wasn't quite touching the ground yet and wasn't sure I wanted to, because what awaited was not going to be much better, though I knew I couldn't go on hanging on to that giant, amorphous blob of a nightmare that felt like the biggest cloud of self-loathing and remorse that had ever wafted into my life. I would never be the same." - Elio Pearlman, morning-after panic after finally, finally consummating his love

Like clockwork, while watching Timmy sleep, the thought revisits Armie like a persistent, unwanted ghost: _I will lose you._

That other shoe waiting to drop - Armie finds himself perpetually there, anticipating. Because he’s certain it will. Because what they have can’t possibly last. A stretch away from fantasy, a barely-there reality that subsists on gossamer-like experiences. Stolen days and carved out moments that seem to suspend time, saturate it in too bright colors, in sounds that are crisp and precise, in touch that imprints like a permanent brand and is simultaneously fleeting - they are weaved with intention, but without commitment.

 _I miss you already._ The truth of the sentiment is jolting. At once it flares up an ache in Armie for that someday when Timmy won’t be lying next to him, not ever again. Only empty space will greet his wandering hand, reaching for a body that was so substantially his, once.

He grapples with the loss now, tracing the contours of Timmy’s face, the angular prominence of his cheekbones and jaw, the ridiculous red of his lips. He is _so_ beautiful, and _so young_. Fickle and fidgety and restless. Armie had been that way, too. Sampling life like a buffet, curiosity satiated only momentarily and only by the novelty of the next discovered thing - a place, a song, a meal, a person. He cycled through each, appetite eager and insatiable. And then - then his curiosity changed. Desire for familiarity replaced desire for what's new. And now - now Armie wants to _keep_. He wants status quo. He wants this Timmy, so sweetly sprawled next to him and over him, and needy still, needing Armie so much, and so trusting still, of the world and his capacity to withstand heartbreak.

But Armie doesn’t know how he will manage it. Even in the abstract, it’s crushing. Leaves him breathless and staggering, shattered. He does not know how he will survive it. He doesn’t know if he will. And as if the inevitable is at his fingertips, he withdraws they’re foraging, incrementally, stops them from collecting more for Armie’s bank of memories. Better, perhaps, to begin the forgetting. Though simultaneously, desperately, he urges Timmy: _wake up, wake up!_ Catch me before we disappear.

But he doesn’t.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Immediately follows Chapter 6.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On his first kiss: 
> 
> “She was my girlfriend for about a month, as these things go in high school, I think she got sick of me.” - Timothee Chalamet, on his first kiss
> 
>    
> On their friendship:
> 
> “The structure of our relationship is l’ll go over and, like, just wait until I feel like everybody wants me to go and then I’ll go.” - Timothee Chalamet
> 
> “Never. And the answer’s never. We never want him to leave.” - Armie Hammer
> 
>    
> NYFCC, Best Actor Speech:
> 
> “I was the luckiest kid in the world to be there with Armie. Because you are extremely talented, you're kind, your spirit is generous, and you haven’t gotten sick of me yet.” - Timothee Chalamet

Timmy wakes to Armie’s cock in his ass. Halfway buried inside him and angled directly at his prostate. A thigh is slung rock heavy over his hips and Armie’s arms are thick straps across his chest, binding him. "Fuck," he moans, and throws his head back helplessly. It’s all he can do. Take it. Shiver at an extended drag, because Armie knows how to fuck him properly, the places that make him keen and whine. 

A hand wraps around his throat, thumb on his windpipe. It closes slowly, carefully, pinching the air. This is new. A bolt of fear sparks up Timmy’s spine. It is no less threatening than when they tried it the first time, and when the loss of oxygen transitions from gradual to sudden, like he’s been pulled underwater, he struggles. He gapes like a fish impaled on a hook. Armie mistakes it for a plea to stop and he loosens his hold, but Timmy doesn’t want that. He clamps his hand over Armie’s before it withdraws, presses down: tighter. Go tighter.

_You’ll kill me if you stop._

Total surrender makes Timmy delirious. Armie could damage him, if he wanted to. Or at the very least, make him hurt. He could in an instant erase all trust. Swiftly flip the switch inside Timmy from safe to unsafe. But he won’t. And he doesn’t. He is careful, so careful through to the end, even as the size of him makes Timmy feel small, and the strength of him makes Timmy weak, and though he has Timmy’s utmost consent to do _anything_.

Timmy gasps. Air. His orgasm hits him like a mack truck. He shakes through it, through the aftershocks and after, unable to stop himself, and Armie holds him tight, tight, until he quiets, his face buried in the damp place between Timmy’s shoulder blades. His breathing is labored, too. It always is after they fuck, but there’s a quality to it that’s not the usual. Something is smothered. Then abruptly, he releases Timmy.

He rolls to the edge of the bed, taking with him all the warmth of his body. The cold is a shock. Timmy’s skin prickles from it, and the hairs on his arms rise. “Where are you going?” he asks, because Armie is pulling on the shirt he had discarded the night before. Next, his jeans; the belt is looped in and buckled. He’s probably hungry. They had skipped dinner and went straight for desert - sex, sex, and more sex. Sleep in between. Probably jonesing for a sausage, egg, and cheese sandwich now - the thought makes Timmy salivate, his stomach growl. He must be going to the bodega at the corner. Another New York thing that Timmy had indoctrinated him to. _Don’t forget to ask for salt and pepper, and ketchup._ The instruction is on the tip of his tongue - and dies there. Because Armie isn’t going to the bodega; he’s packing his things.

“Do you ever think of moving?” He turns to look at Timmy, hands on his hips. There’s a hint of wild in his eyes. Like an animal that’s been spooked or cornered. “You must. You can’t stay here forever.”

“Why not?” Timmy loves his apartment. It’s small and musty, but it’s his.

“Don’t be stupid.”

Timmy flinches, stunned at the insult.

“I didn’t - ” Armie extends a hand toward him, as if to placate, to soothe. “I’m sorry. I just meant - I think you’ll outgrow it. I _know_ you will.” He turns back around and resumes packing. Timmy watches the muscles ripple under his shirt. And it dawns on him -

“Are you, is this - are we breaking up?" The question is awash in disbelief. It can’t be. They have plans. Autumn in New York is Timmy’s new favorite thing. Less tourists and schools back in session mean shorter lines at Timmy’s favorite places, a less crowded subway during the day. Long walks in hoodies and scarves and watching the leaves turn in Central Park: these are on the list. And it’s a _long_ list. An exhibit at the MOMA, a film at the Angelika, coffee in the East Village. Bagels with cream cheese and lox. People watching in Washington Square Park. A furtive kiss on the rooftop at The Met. He made an itinerary, for fuck’s sake. He didn’t want Armie to miss a thing.

Timmy shakes the blankets off him and shoots to his feet. His heart is hammering. It feels like it’s going to leap right out of his chest. 

Armie has grown sick of him, finally. A hundred things run through Timmy’s mind, a hundred reasons why: the stupid pistachio shells; his pointless, rambling mouth and its propensity to interrupt; his penchant for being late, always; the dumb, annoying laugh; his selfish adoration. How needy he is. He is too needy. Too intense, too earnest, so fucking naive that it makes him blind, self-absorbed, and he's sorry, sorry, sorry.

"Hey, hey." Armie rushes to him, takes him by the shoulders, and shakes him. "Stop that. It's not you."

Of course it's him. It's always him. People get sick of him, and he expected that Armie would, too. But someday, far far away. Not now, not _now_. How did he not see this coming?

"Just tell me what I did," he pleads. "I won't do it again, I promise. And I'm sorry. I'm sorry I don't know what it is. I should know. I should pay better attention. I'll do better. I'll be better. Please, Armie, please." He's sobbing, gripping Armie by the collar of his shirt like a pathetic child. But he can't help it.

"Don't," Armie says. His voice breaks. He clasps Timmy to him. "Don't. You didn't do anything. I swear it. You’re perfect, amazing, everything I could have wanted - you’re _everything_. And you did nothing wrong. But I - " He pulls away, cups Timmy's face, and looks him in the eye. “I just can’t. Anymore. I’m sorry."

"I don't understand."

"You will." Armie gently, but firmly disentangles. He pulls the top sheet from the bed and wraps it around Timmy. "You'll catch cold." He kisses him on the cheek - and Timmy shuts his eyes and tries to savor it - and returns to his near full duffle bag. A tube of hair product and his deodorant are the only items of his that remain on top of Timmy's dresser. He gathers them. Timmy imagines himself propelling forward like a bullet and prying the duffle bag away, out of Armie's hands, and shaking its contents loose, throwing a shirt here, a sock there, scattering it all out of reach, far enough to delay him. To buy Timmy time. Enough to talk Armie out of leaving, because Timmy’s convinced he can. He _must_.

But he doesn’t. He is unable to move, unable to shake himself out of the shock from how suddenly this is happening. How unexpectedly, viciously, his life has turned sideways. He considers throwing himself at Armie’s feet, and clinging to them to prevent him from walking out. His body jerks, as if preparing to spring. 

But it’s too late. 

The door shuts quietly behind Armie. And Timmy falls to his knees.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Follows Chapter 7.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I just have no impulse control." - Armie Hammer

"I fucked up."

"What? Why? What happened? You sound terrible."

"Don't get mad."

" _Armie._ What did you do?"

"Liz, can you - please, can you save the lecture? For later. Please. I just can't. Not right now."

"Okay, okay. I'm listening. The Lecturing Hat is officially off. What happened?"

"I broke up with Timmy."

The statement is met with silence.

"Hello? Are you still there?"

"Yeah, I, yeah. I am. I did not expect that."

"Neither did I. I didn't plan it. I didn't even know that I'd be doing it until, until . . . Oh my god, what did I do?"

"Hey, hey, shhhhh. Oh, honey. I wish I could give you a hug."

"I wish you were here."

"Do you want me to come?"

"No, I - I'm coming home."

"Maybe you should stay."

"Why?"

"Tell me what happened."

"Nothing happened. I freaked out."

"Because?"

"Because . . . I don't know. I started thinking - "

"Uh oh."

He laughs. “Thank you. I needed that." 

“Good. You’re welcome. You were saying?"

"I was saying that I - I started thinking about me and him, us, how fleeting it feels sometimes. How unreal."

"It's real."

"I know, but - it can't last."

"You don't know that."

"I do. I _do_ , Liz. I know what it's like to be him, at his age. I had such a . . . short attention span. Completely smitten and obsessed one day, and the next - done. Over it. Who's next in line?"

"It's not like that with you two."

"Not yet. And I've noticed - he doesn't call as much. It takes days sometimes for him to return a text. And until now - we've hardly seen each other. I mean, when was the last time he visited? It's been months. The writing was on the wall: the beginning of the end."

"Or the beginning of the middle."

"What?"

"Relationships wax and wane, you know that."

"And relationships don't survive because of it."

"Ours has."

"But we're the - "

"We're what? The exception? Maybe you and Timmy can be, too. If you give it a chance."

“I’m going to fail him." And there it is. The truth pared down to its skeletal frame.

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“ _Yes_ , you are.” She doesn’t say you already have, but - he has. “I fail you, sometimes. And, sometimes, you fail me. It’s unavoidable. Comes with the full package deal, you know? Warts and all. And he’s going to fail you, too. Besides, you can’t cancel feelings, even if you cancel the person - or try to.”

“I also can’t uncrack the egg.” 

“No, but you can apologize.”

“He deserves more than just an apology.”

“You’re right - so give him more than an apology. Let him in.”

_

 

Three days. That’s how long it takes Armie to complete the call.

He spends ages staring at his phone, at first. Then hours longer tracing Timmy’s name in his contacts, wondering if it’s all he has left of him, if the damage is irreparable. He wonders if he’ll interrupt, whether it will be a good time to talk, where Timmy will be when he picks up. _If_ he picks up. His finger hovers over the green button, but he can’t bring himself to press down, can’t bring himself to connect. He _can’t_. Each time he gets close, he sees Timmy scrambling to get to his feet, as vivid as if he’s reliving it, watching him stumble from getting tangled in the sheets and nearly falling. His naked, shivering body. How oblivious of it he had been, as if nothing existed but Armie and his desperate need to keep him from leaving, not the cold, not his chattering teeth. Or his skinny, bare feet. He looked _so small_. So . . . breakable. 

And his face. That beautiful, heartbroken face. The trembling in his eyelashes when Armie leaned in to kiss him a final time.

Armie is a monster. The gravity of what he’s done sinks in while he tries to distract himself. Television, internet, alcohol - nothing works. Even reasoning, what could he say? _I got scared you’d leave me so I decided to leave you first._ He doesn’t have to say it aloud to know how stupid it sounds. And _anything_ he comes up with is going to sound stupid, because what he did was stupid. Thoughtless. Selfish. He’s supposed to be the grown-up in the relationship, not the asshole who has no impulse control. 

“I hurt him,” Armie whispers to no one. To the world. And he feels the regret deep, deep in his bones. 

Then - 

He casts guilt aside. 

Face it: he is not a brave man. His skin is too thin. He isn’t elastic. He can’t bounce back from insult or disappointment or pain, not like - like Timmy. Who stretched and stretched for him and kept stretching.

So. 

He’s not a brave man. But he wants to be. And it’s his turn to reach.

He calls.

Timmy picks up on the second ring.

“Hi,” Armie says. “It’s me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for you kudos and bookmarks and comments! Truly, it helps keep this going.
> 
> And to you wonderful commenters: I will respond soon! (Life has just been crazy.) Thank you for leaving your thoughts. And I hope you continue to. I love hearing from you.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Immediately follows Chapter 8.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Do you have a secret party trick?” - Interviewer
> 
> “A capacity for self-loathing.” - Timothee Chalamet

Three days. It takes Timmy three days to get out of bed, and only after Armie calls.

He drags himself to the bathroom. Stares at his reflection. He looks like shit. His eyes are puffy and the dark smudges that had been there before he came back to New York have deepened to almost purple. His hair is in tangles and he winces when he works his fingers through to unknot them. A scraggly bush has sprouted above his upper lip, the only place still that's fertile for it. His cheeks and jaw are baby smooth, still, young and immature like him. Barely touched by life. Barely woken to it. Reasons enough, he supposes, for Armie to end things. But he still doesn't understand. Still doesn't know why. And it has been a constant beat in his head, an anxious, persistent drumming that has stolen all sleep.

He should shave. He will. Later.

Shower first. He stinks. Smells as bad as he feels. His clothes are crusty in places. And it should feel like a relief, an exhale of a long, too long held breath when he's out of them, after they're piled at his feet, and water, warm and steady, hits his skin. It should feel like bliss. But he feels . . . nothing. Nothing and pain. 

Nothing, then pain. Pain, then nothing. The pendulum that has characterized the last three days. He’s oscillated from a flat and colorless state that is not unlike being in a surreal, nebulous dream, to _agony_. Stark and fresh, because inevitably time rolled back and froze him _there_. Suspending him in shock and disbelief and hurt. It _hurt_.

He’s crying. Again. He won’t stop crying.

He’s shivering. The water has run cold. How long he’s been in the shower, he doesn’t know. But his fingers are numb and pruny. He gets out. He pads to his bedroom and he’s almost at his closet when he realizes he’s dripping water. “Shit,” he says, and runs back to the bathroom. There, he dries in a hurry. It’s cold. He feels it now, and he remembers that the heat in his building hasn’t kicked in yet. It’s just October, but the temperature’s plummeted to the fifties. His feet feel like ice. He needs socks. A beanie.

“Socks, beanie, socks, beanie,” he repeats to himself so he won’t forget. 

But then he spies the razor on the sink - that’s right, he has to shave, too. And brush his teeth. Both feel like too much effort. He’d much rather go back to bed, back under the covers. But Armie is coming. He’ll be here soon, and Timmy should at least look decent. Not that he’s fooled himself into thinking that Armie will care. He knows he won’t. He’s done with Timmy. He’s made that clear. Any window of _maybe_ has officially closed, buried under the silence of no calls, no texts, no matter how hard or how long Timmy stared at his phone willing it to ring. And willing it to be Armie when it did. But it never did and it never was.

He doesn’t know why Armie called today. Or why he’s coming. His voice was strained, stiff and formal unlike any other time he’s spoken to Timmy, almost abrupt and simultaneously too polite.

“Do you mind if I come by?” he had asked.

No. Yes? Did it matter?

Maybe they’ll have The Talk. Which made no sense, because The Talk usually precedes a break-up, but none of what’s happened makes sense, so what does Timmy know? Except that he shouldn’t bet on his own judgment. Not anymore.

Or maybe Armie forgot some things in his hurry to pack. He sure was in a rush. Couldn’t wait to get away from Timmy, run as far, far away as he could. Especially after that pity fuck. _God._ What had it taken Armie to do that? Guilt? A twisted sense of duty that obligated him to sacrifice his dick? But if what he intended was comfort, it failed on delivery. Because Timmy was not soothed or consoled. He did not feel _cherished_ , the way he had, before, always. He felt dirty and _wrong_. And confused, because he still wanted it. _Wants_ it. He would get down on his knees in an instant if Armie asked. He would let him do anything, _anything_. Still.

He looks at his dresser, the floor adjacent to it, and the nightstand by the bed. The usual places where Armie parked his things when he visited. But only Timmy’s items clutter their surfaces. He’s at a loss. And he’s _cold_. How had he forgotten? Again. Water from his still wet hair sluices down his naked back. He hasn’t put a damn thing on.

Socks. Beanie. Socks. Beanie.

He throws on sweats, socks that don’t match. From the third drawer of his dresser, he pulls out a gray beanie and with it spills out one end of a scarf. Armie’s scarf. The one he’d placed in Timmy’s bag knowing that Timmy would forget his. It still hung from the bedpost in that small room - Timmy’s room - the last time he was at Armie’s. 

No trace of Armie lingers on the scarf, suffused completely by Timmy’s detergent and the stale odor of his dresser. He can’t even dredge up the memory of what it used to smell like, though he tries. And neither will he get to keep the scarf, because that must be why Armie is returning. To reclaim his things and level their relationship to ground zero.

The scarf. A t-shirt Timmy “borrowed.” The hoodie that Armie had been wearing while they were on a walk one night and forced Timmy to put on when the windchill spiked suddenly. Boxers, other t-shirts, a sweater, a pair of slippers, a tie. Timmy gathers each, piles them in his arms. Then he sits on the edge of his bed and waits.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Follows Chapter 9.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Tomorrow is today," he replied. - Oliver, from _Call Me By Your Name_

_I was scared you’re so young no I don’t mean it in a patronizing way just that you have options so many and this stuff your life is just beginning I know what that’s like don’t want to hold you back kept thinking am I maybe yeah and I should have talked to you but good grief I’m a grown man and it’s not like I haven’t felt these things or been insecure which is honestly that’s what happened I was insecure but I thought I was past some of it or all of it like I’ve dealt with thinking what if she walks out you know with Elizabeth obviously so I don’t know this isn’t new but it is because I mean I’ve never you know with another man and we’ve talked about it you neither but I don’t think it’s just that or that I would feel this way again this much about someone else and_

All of it spills in a torrent, in a jumble of pieces that Armie has to arrange and rearrange to have them make sense and whether they do, in the end, is debatable. What isn’t is what Armie could not pinpoint at first, but crystalizes from the perfect picture of misery that Timmy makes, even after, as he sits across from Armie hunched over and still clutching Armie’s old things to his chest: they have become unknown. It’s a fundamental realignment. A tectonic shift to their relationship that no amount of apologizing and explaining can undo.

So Armie stops trying. What he’s done is not okay, despite that it’s been Timmy’s response to every _I’m sorry_. The passage of time won’t change that and it shouldn’t. It should be left as is, unsettled. Forgiven, perhaps, if he's lucky. But not forgotten.

And that the wheels in Timmy's head continue to churn, tying to isolate his role in what's happened, where he contributed and how - it eats at Armie. But his words are useless against Timmy's devastation. He doesn't have the ability to convince him of anything, not now.

Armie fucked up. And he has to start over.

So he stops talking. Instead, he gets to his feet and gets to work. His old things - from which he had recoiled when Timmy shoved them at him, at the door, and oh how he had panicked that it was too late - are returned to the dresser, carefully stored. The bed is rank, the sheets beyond wrinkled, leaving no doubt in Armie's mind, if he had any, how Timmy spent the past three days despite the dark smudges under his eyes that are unmistakably a result of no sleep. He replaces the sheets, shakes out the comforter, and fluffs the pillows, returning the bed to a state that is at least welcoming, if not exactly . . . safe. A can of soup is dumped into a pot on the stove and heated, and Armie spoon-feeds Timmy, who resists at first, but feebly.

Timmy does not look improved after he finishes eating and sways when he rises from the sofa. He topples against Armie, who catches him - arm curling around a too slender waist, hand burying in a mess of curls.

They breathe.

A lump forms in Armie’s throat. “Can I - ” He hesitates. “Can I stay?” He asks for today, for now, because tomorrow is too much, too soon to hope for. He doesn’t deserve it. Not yet. But when Timmy’s arms lift up and surround him, Armie thinks _maybe, just maybe_ -

“Yes.”

-

Coda:

“Yes,” Timmy cries out, arching. His legs wind around Armie and cinch tight. “Harder.”

Armie obliges. Thrusts in deep. And holds.

“Move, fuck,” Timmy gasps, wriggling.

“Not yet.” Armie buries his face in his neck, breathes in the warm, salty scent of him. Relearns it. And his skin, silky smooth between his thighs, rough under his armpits. The concave valley of his belly. His bony chest. The fit of him snug and clinging. A tear trickles down Armie's cheek.

He's home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus ends the break-up arc. I apologize for the angst - it was a lot, I know. But lighter, smuttier stuff is ahead, possibly after a bit of break. An AU plot bunny has been tempting me. We'll see. If that takes off, hope to see you all there, too.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Precedes Chapter 4.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “This is our one year anniversary . . . We’re missing an Armie, we’re missing a Hammer.” - Timothee Chalamet
> 
> “We’re gonna make do.” - Interviewer
> 
> “Okay.” - Timothee Chalamet

“Stop reading it.”

“I can’t. Listen to this: ‘But then, of course, actors love the opportunities to go deep into madness and obsession. Chalamet is no exception but, in truth, he’s more exasperating and not as interesting in hooked mode as he is as a promising bright young thing. This guy should stay clean.’ So that’s that: I should stay clean. What the fuck does that even mean?”

“It means the guy’s an idiot. You can’t please everyone.”

“I know that.”

“It’s the fifth rule of Fight Club.”

"What?”

“‘The first rule of Fight Club is: You do not talk about Fight Club,’” Armie says in his best Tyler Durden.

“I haven’t seen that,” Timmy mumbles.

“Dude.”

“It’s about a guy who can’t sleep, though, right? Good example. Very on-the-nose, Mr. Hammer. But before you take that as a compliment, here’s another one: ‘he leans too hard into hand-holding gloss everywhere, especially when it comes to music . . . a few of the emphatically on-the-nose needle drops that make the film play like a schmaltz-infused music-video-cum-alarmist-anti-drug-PSA.’”

“Ouch.”

“Yup. I made a two-hour PSA.”

“ _You_ didn’t make it.”

“I acted in a two-hour PSA - that doesn’t sound as . . . dramatic. Or, like, properly owning my shit. I mean, we _owned_ CMBYN, right?”

Because it’s easy when it’s good. It’s easy when it’s perfect. Art. Life. Relationships. Them. 

“I know what you need.”

“What? Your cock?”

Armie laughs. “I was going to say ice cream. Are you horny?”

“Yes. I’m mad and I’m horny. Why aren’t you here?”

“Why aren’t you here?”

“I will be.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeaaahhhh,” Timmy breathes, and Armie imagines him nodding, eyes closing and face relaxing, if just marginally. “Can I stay a few weeks? Or longer?”

Stay forever. Never leave. But Armie says neither and instead, “You can stay as long as you want.”

Timmy says nothing for a while and Armie wonders if he’s fallen asleep. It’s got to be near asscrack of dawn wherever he is. Must be jet lag. Armie hopes it’s only that. “Do you hate me when I’m like this?”

"Like what?”

“Boring.”

“You’re not boring. You are never boring.”

“The opposite of not fun, then. What’s the word for that?”

“Well, in my day, son, we called it a ‘wet blanket.’”

“Shut up, millennial.”

“I am barely a millennial."

“Gen-X wannabee.”

“Actually, no. The experts aren’t agreed on the timestamp. And I’m in the Pluto-is-in-a-planet camp.”

“That t-shirt is going to be your next birthday gift.”

“And a little nookie.”

“And I take it back - you are actually sixty years old.”

“But you’re not complaining.”

“I’m not.”

“But you do sound tired.”

“I am.”

“So I should let you go and - ”

“No, not yet. Can you tell me a story?”

“Would you like you me to read Goodnight Moon again, Harper?”

“Yes, _daddy_.”

“That . . . no. Wrong context. Inappropriate follow-up. Gross.”

Timmy laughs. “Sorry." 

“Here’s a story.”

“Wait.” 

Armie hears rustling. “What are you doing?”

“Grabbing a pillow from behind my head so I can hug it. Pretend it’s you.”

“I have your scarf.”

“My scarf?”

“The striped one you left behind. Which is convenient, because it relates to the story. Ready?”

“Ready.”

“So, when I was a kid - I was eight, I think - my parents went on this trip. And it was the first time, or at least the earliest I remember being apart from my mom. I was inconsolable. So I’ve been told. Wrapped around her leg, sobbing and begging her not to leave, and I literally had to be torn away. She had this pink, fluffy bathrobe that smelled exactly like her after a shower or bath. And every day that she was gone, I dragged that thing around with me. I wore it when I ate. I had it next to me when I was doing homework. I slept with it.”

“That’s so cute.”

“I’m not done.”

“Oops.”

“Fast forward thirteen years to this scarf. I have been known to drag it around it with me when you’re not here.”

“And you have it with you when you’re doing homework?”

“Especially then.”

“I’m picturing you in a schoolboy uniform.”

“You’re distracting me.”

“Sorry, again. Please continue.”

“When you first left the scarf behind, it smelled so strongly of you.”

“ _Eau de Timmy._ ”

“Exactly. Cologne, shampoo, lotion. Even toothpaste? Did you brush your teeth with this thing on?”

“That was probably mouthwash. I gargle sometimes on the run. And if I didn’t have anything else to wipe my mouth with, or even when I did. Well.”

“Mouthwash, then. Your habits, and the scarf - it was a like a portrait of you, but in scents. And it didn’t just smell good. It had your sweat, your funk, traces of a meal that you ate when you had it with you. I missed those the most after they faded.” Like the hollow behind Timmy’s knee and the sharp jut of bones framing it. The tight curl of his hair at the nape of his neck after a day in the heat, and the soppy, greasy feel of it rubbed between Armie’s fingers. The spot that tickles most under his feet. The tiny mole up, up inside his thigh where the smell of him is concentrated, potent, and heady, particularly when unwashed. The lint in his belly or wax in his ear, not at all attractive and mildly repulsive. The grime. The ordinary, in focus. Because he’s allowed.

“This is that,” Armie says. “Not boring.” But Timmy’s already asleep and he’s snoring. Loudly and unapologetically. And Armie listens to it, contented, until his own eyes get heavy.


End file.
